


Panacea

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Porn Battle, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6396169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail knows how to help Henry recover from a bad dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panacea

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Porn Battle Prompt Stack](http://pbam.dreamwidth.org/) event for the Henry/Abigail prompts "nightmares," "silk," and "cherish"

"I know how to make you feel better," Abigail murmured against his throat, and licked along his hammering pulse. "How to make you forget all those rotten dreams of yours."

A groan broke free from Henry's chest, and she pressed kisses below his ear, mouthed along his jaw. "Please," he whispered, letting his hands roam over the smooth curves of her back, indulging in the feel of her stretched along the length of his body. Alive. She was still there, still alive, no matter what lies his traitorous brain told him as he slept.

"You're thinking so loud you'll wake Abe," she said, and kissed the tip of his nose. "Stop doing that."

He opened his mouth to speak, to say he couldn't help thinking, and Abigail rolled her hips upon his groin, banishing all thought from his mind in a glorious rush of sensation. A raw, "God," escaped his lips. Encouraged, she ground down again, the silk of her nightgown making it easy to slide across his newly growing erection, to stoke the tantalizing burn set alight in the pit of his gut.

Staring at her in awe, he said, "You always have the best ideas."

She laughed softly. "I know, darling."

He arched against her, slid his hands down to her rear and held her even closer, desperate for the delicious friction of her, the reassurance of her presence. An approving hum came from her throat, one of his favorite noises, and he squeezed the firm flesh under his palms, kneaded it as her lips met his, teeth clashing briefly, until he and Abigail found the languid sweetness of their familiar rhythm. He savored her taste as they kissed—hints of the salty sweat beading above her lip—savored the slick glide of her lush mouth on his, hot and wet and perfect. Small moans came from within her, and he swallowed them eagerly, fueling the arousal building in his nerves and driving away the vast and empty future clawing at his heart.

Abigail pulled back, gasping, and his throbbing lips mourned the absence of hers. "More," she said, her voice ragged, and she straddled his thighs. "I need..."

Wasting no time, Henry slipped his hands beneath her nightgown and tugged her cotton panties down to her knees with deliberate care, making sure his fingers brushed her thighs, leaving gooseflesh on her bared skin. A smile spread across her lovely face, wicked and delighted, and he kissed it away, and let his hands wander to the tempting space between her thighs, so very wet already, waiting for him. He teased the delicate labia open with his fingers, and she rubbed herself insistently upon his hand, until he pressed his thumb to her clitoris, making her shiver and gasp. He chuckled, and moved his thumb in swift, light circles, and she clenched her legs around his.

Christ, how he adored her. He adored every exquisite sound from her lips as he touched her, as he stroked her and slipped his fingers into her, each quiet whimper bringing them both closer and closer to the edge. Adored how she chased what she wanted, demanding more and more pleasure from his hand with each jerk of her hips, pleasure he was happy to give. The way she repeated his name, breathless and almost silent, somewhere between prayer and profanity. The frustrated noises she made when she yanked at his clothes, and the satisfaction in her grin once she'd freed him from his underwear. Abigail—perfect, vibrant, alive, and, oh, how he ached to be inside her.

"Want you," he said, and she nodded vigorously, understanding what he meant, as in tune with him as always.

She sank onto him with a sigh, embracing him with her tight, slick heat, overwhelming him. His breath fled his lungs in a rush. For a moment, they held each other, her hands on his shoulders, him clutching her hips and tethering himself to the present. Their eyes met, her gaze tender and affectionate, likely a mirror of his own. "Abigail," he said, and pressed a kiss to her swollen lips. "My Abigail. You are..."

But mere words would never be enough. There was a reason people spoke of feeling like their hearts would burst at the seams from holding so much love for another. Abigail was his reason, his panacea, the one who always made him better. And she surrounded him, her long hair brushing his chest, her pale nightgown pooling on his body like moonlight and bunching softly under his roaming hands. He reached up and cupped her cheek, stroked the pink-tinged jut of her cheekbone with his damp thumb, content to simply look at her for a moment, to simply touch her, cherish her, love her as much as she deserved.

Her eyes fluttering closed, she rocked her hips against him, her movement slow and exhilarating. He inhaled her scent, the heady and familiar fragrances of arousal and breath and perspiration, lingering soap and faint perfume, the distinctive smell of her under it all, filling his chest with fondness and his nerves with electric tension as he met her thrusts with his own.

His hands found her breasts as she rode him, and he cupped the gentle curves in his palms, caressed them. "Yes," she whispered, barely louder than the squeak of the mattress and the rustling sheets, and she pushed her chest toward him him. Her nipples looked like shadows beneath her clothes, and he dragged his thumbs over them, circling the hard peaks and areola, earning another breathy, "Yes."

She was close—her muscles trembling, her movements erratic, her walls clenching around him, almost enough to push him over the edge, to make the inferno of tension running through his nerves fracture into orgasm. _Not yet,_ he told himself. Dear Lord, not yet.

"Love you," he gritted out, and he kissed her temple, rolled her nipples gently between his fingers. She moaned, and slammed her hips into his, buried her face in the curve of his shoulder, her hot gasps cooling his damp skin, her nails digging into his back as she moved. Him touching her breasts always drove her mad. He knew Abigail's body almost as well as his own, and rarely failed to exploit that knowledge. He was hers, completely. Her pleasure was his pleasure. Few things felt as good as satisfying her.

He moved a hand back to her clitoris, teased it with the rapid, featherlight strokes she preferred, and she said a number of foul, broken words as her hips bucked and her toes curled against his legs, as her hands fell from his shoulders and twisted themselves in the sheets.

She froze. _There._ Her head fell back, and Henry kept going, kept moving his fingers on her as she shuddered and came undone with the tiniest sob.

Spent, she slumped against him, a lazy smile on her face, and he finally let the sweet rush of his own release consume him.


End file.
